Women can be rapists too
by Guinevere81
Summary: Written as a respons to a prompt on the kink meme John gets raped by some woman he MEETS in the pub one night. She drugs him, or encourages him to drink until he passes out or something like that. And because it's not violent, and because she's a woman, John won't let himself believe it's rape.


John gets raped by some woman he MEETS in the pub one night. She drugs him, or encourages him to drink until he passes out or something like that. And because it's not violent, and because she's a woman, John won't let himself believe it's rape.

SHERLOCK, who isn't prone to making conventional assumptions, realizes it immediately. He handles things with his usual combination of intelligence and a complete lack of tact. Gen or eventual S/J.

John sat in the pub carefully nursing a drink when a tall pretty woman sidled up to him smiling kindly.

'Hi there, you look lonely.' She said in a sultry tone and John smiled back.

'I wouldn't say that, but I suppose company is always welcome.' John returned her smile.

'Drowning your sorrows then?' She asked and John shrugged.

'I just got off work and because I had a row with my flatmate this morning I am trying to postpone going home, very mature.' He joked and she giggled appreciatively.

'I can think of a few ways you could postpone going home, for quite some time.' She said and John was struck by how forward she was being. This wasn't just flirting, she was being very overtly sexual for eight o'clock and only one pint under the belt. He felt awkward when he found that his private parts actually responded to her suggestion as he felt a slight stirring between his legs and felt his face grow warm.

'That's a kind offer but I really don't think that is a good idea. I should just work it out with my friend. Would you excuse me for a minute?' He said and absented himself to the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and took the time to decide that beautiful as the woman was he was not going to jump into bed with her just because he had the opportunity. He was not a one night stand kind of guy.

He returned to his seat at the bar with the firm determination to get to know the pretty woman and ideally get her number but certainly not go to bed with her. He seemed to be doing rather well with this mission as by the time he was ordering his second pint she had given him her name and number and was still interspersing her retellings of bits of information from her life with an alarming amount of sexual innuendo which was doing frustrating things to John's increasingly hard cock.

John is surprised to find that the room has grown very warm and his head seems to be spinning somewhat. He feels far more drunk than one and a half pints on a warm autumn day warrants and yet the thought that he's been drugged doesn't enter his mind even as the woman leads him behind the building and pushes him down on the ground.

It is quiet behind the pub and the air is warm against his skin as she divests him of his trousers.

'No, don't… I wasn't going to… please stop.' John tries to protest but his penis seems to have grown a mind of its own as it is quite happy to respond to the woman's ministrations and stands proudly erect as she lowers herself onto it.

John feels ashamed at his own body's reactions as ripples of pleasure wash up his spine as the woman rides him while she pins him to the ground. His mind may be numb but he is quite aware of the strange contradiction of trying to tell her to leave him alone while his body is simultaneously screaming for her to keep going. Below him the edge of the pavement digs into his back, gravel scraping against skin and above him is all wet, warm and female and he moans with what could equally well be enjoyment or agony.

She's rough, unpleasantly rough, she slams his hands into the pavement over his head and pound into him making his back bounce against the edge of it underneath him. 'Please don't it hurts' he tries to make his voice steady but instead of relenting she smilingly slaps him across the face and then proceeds to kiss him.

The strange combination of cruelty and tenderness is dizzying. He is a gentle lover careful of his partner's feelings. This kind of intricate torture is something he has never experienced first hand. To him it belong in porn or the sobbing statements of bruised girls asking for morning after pills and STI screening and neither of those two are categories he ever thought of as applying to him.

He cries when he comes and he honestly can't tell if they are tears of pleasure, pain or just pure shame it all seems to be one and the same at this point. There is no cuddling, no gentle kisses. Once it is over she leaves and John finds himself on the ground in a back alley with his trousers in a pile next to him and with tears streaming down his face and everything just seems very wrong.

John struggles to his feet and puts his clothes back on. The Jeans feel tight against the bruises forming on his back but he needs them on and the pain is strangely grounding. By the time he leaves the alley he has stopped crying and even though he is limping he is distinctly more aware of his surroundings than he was some half hour ago, feeling just a little bit more human.

That being said he is almost run over twice on his way home because he is far more confused than is healthy while walking around in London traffic. He falls over repeatedly and by the time he makes it home his right hand is bleeding and he has been sick enough times that he is now bringing up nothing but bile. He feels disgusting.

Dragging himself up the seventeen steps to their flat he stumbles into the bathroom, ignoring Sherlock's comments from the living room. He tries again to vomit but his stomach is empty and all he manages is retching into the toilet bowl.

By the time he has rinsed his mouth with mouthwash six times he is aware of a presence behind him and he slowly turns to see Sherlock looking thoughtfully at him, as though he is a particularly interesting experiment. 'I got a bit drunk.' He tries but it doesn't work for a second

'You got a bit raped, by a woman no less. Some kind of drug, Rohypnol maybe, more likely GHB. You will need to go to hospital, she didn't use protection and she injured both your hand and your back.' Sherlock says proudly as though the deductions are somehow not both offensive and extremely private.

'No I wasn't I had sex, it is quite normal for a man my age and she was both attractive and quite skilled.' John says but his eyes do not meet Sherlock's and he is clutching his injured hand to his chest. 'And she has nothing to do with my hand, I fell and landed on something sharp, not sure what but it wasn't her fault.'

'Well, seeing as you wouldn't have fallen over if you weren't drugged and she's the one who slipped you the drugs I would say your hand is most certainly her fault, oh and if you weren't drugged you would have noticed what you cut your hand on, and yes John you were raped. There is evidence that the encounter made you cry and the way you are currently trembling is suggestive of trauma meaning the crying was not caused by pleasure something which is further evidenced by the way you hold yourself. This combined by the fact that I can tell your back is hurting and you have never been one to go in for rough sex with your previous girlfriends so I am pretty sure you asked her to stop on multiple occasions. Forced intercourse when asked to desist is I believe the definition of rape John.' Sherlock pushes and he isn't entirely aware of when John's face drains of what little colour it has remaining and he sits down on the bathtub. He does notice however when the first sob escapes from between John's trembling hands.

'Shut up, shut up. Please just don't' John begs and Sherlock suddenly realises that those deductions were probably as John would put it 'a bit not good'.

'Please Sherlock, just leave me alone.' John begs and Sherlock hesitates.

'John I really think you need a hospital.' He argues and John nods slowly.

'I probably do, but I need a moment to myself more so please Sherlock stop deducing me and go do something useful, like … I don't know… make a cup of tea.' The suggestion makes them both giggle and it almost restores normality, only John's breath hitches and suddenly he's not laughing he is crying again and Sherlock very hesitantly closes the door to the bathroom making his way to the kitchen. 'Don't lock the door he says carefully. He has seen enough rape induced suicides in his time working with Lestrade and he does not want John to become a statistic.

Twenty minutes later John emerges from the bathroom with his hand wrapped and refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes. He does however accept the lukewarm mug of tea that Sherlock offers and when Sherlock offers to call a taxi to take them to UCH he nods hesitantly. His breathing has grown increasingly shallow and he is beginning to feel lightheaded.

The visit to A&E is torturous. When the admitting nurse asks him what he needs help with and he answers 'I had unprotected sex and it was a bit rough, my back hurts, my breathing's not right and I think my hand needs stitches' Sherlock rolls his eyes and steps in front of him. 'How do you expect to get help if you keep lying to people. He was drugged and then raped, almost certainly a mild GHB overdose and if he says his back hurts that probably translates to it is pure agony to anyone else because he always dumbs things down. Still he is able to stand and walk so a fracture is unlikely though not impossible. Oh and his hand will need an estimate of ten stitches externally, I can't tell if there is a need for internal stitches as well but he seems unable to move his fingers properly so there is probably internal damage of some sort.' John cringes at Sherlock's description but he can't really deny any of what his flatmate says What is worse his world has begun to grow fussy edges and he is pretty sure he is on the verge of passing out. He dearly hopes that Sherlock is right about the drug and he will be able to excuse this vertigo as a chemical side effect and not an emotional weakness.

'Sherlock, I…' he begins but by that point things have gone from fussy to thoroughly spinning and he cries out as his already injured back impacts with the floor and the world slips away. He has no idea how long it is before he is once again aware of his surroundings but when he regains some sense of awareness he is resting on a cot and Sherlock is standing beside him, a protective hand wrapped around his right shoulder. He seems unable to properly regain consciousness but he is vaguely aware of being moved and blood being drawn. He is embarrassed by the attention but also relieved at being able to finally stop trying to keep up appearances. He hurts, physically and emotionally and he really doesn't think he can hold it together any longer.

An IV is pushed into his hand and some sort of pain relief is administered before he is taken for an x-ray of his spine. It is undamaged and the injury to John's back is deemed to be restricted to muscle damage. Even if it hurts like hell and will be sore for a few weeks it is nothing permanent.

John's hand which he had written off as just a cut turns out to be less lucky. After a cursory examination the doctor sends John off for another x-ray and comes back with the news that John has fractured both his trapezium and the metacarpal bone in his thumb and Sherlock watches in fascination as the doctor and an only semi-conscious John argue over the advantages of external versus internal setting. In the end John agrees to the surgery because with the cut on his palm the risks of infection with a cast is more threatening than any complication during surgery. Really he had tried to avoid surgery mostly because a cast seemed so much less dramatic and he really wants this incident to not be a big deal. Since his back will be fine and they have taken plenty of blood samples to test for STIs he would have liked to have his hand wrapped in a cast and to be allowed to go home as soon as possible.

When he tentatively suggests this however the doctor all but laughs. 'You have a broken thumb, a severely bruised and swollen lower back and so far you have been repeating yourself at an alarming rate and you keep passing out. Tell me doctor, would you send a patient home with those symptoms, particularly a rape victim who kept insisting he had not been raped even when he clearly has either been drugged or is in fact a junky.'

'I'm not a junky. I don't do drugs.' John protested and the doctor smiled a little. 'My point exactly doctor Watson. That's how I can tell that the GHB was not self administered.' John blinks slowly.

'She drugged me.' He says incredulously. 'I didn't want to. I told her to stop.' He finally admits and suddenly the dams break and tears are rolling down his cheeks. There's a horrible pain in his chest and suddenly he can't breathe. Panic attack the doctor in him diagnoses, heart attack you are going to die his subconscious taunts. He needs to ground himself, manifest he emotional pain into physical pain his subconscious provides again even though the doctor in him knows it is a terribly bad idea. Better to hyperventilate and pass out, causes less damage, and yet he is squeezing his broken thumb in a vice like grip, intentionally causing as much pain as possible because he needs it, he needs the physical pain because it takes away from the ache in his soul. He hears the doctor and Sherlock yelling and he is vaguely aware of the fractured bone in his thumb snapping in two and poking at his skin. The pain sears up his arm and now he really will need surgery but he doesn't care any more. His breathing is way too fast and Sherlock is grabbing his hands making the broken bone shift underneath his skin and then he feels the sedative enter his system and blissfully darkness comes to claim him.

When he comes to he is in a private room and there are pins sticking out of his heavily bandaged hand. He feels very numb and very confused but he suspects that it is largely due to being heavily medicated.

He shifts slightly looking around him and the movement catches Sherlock's attention and he is swiftly at John's side holding out a cup of water as a form of peace offering. They had argued, John remembers that but not much else. John hesitantly accepts the water with his uninjured hand and blinks up at his friend.

'Thank you. What happened?' John asks blinking heavily, there is a strange fog in his head.

'What do you remember?' Sherlock asks.

'We had an argument. You think I'm stupid and useless and… and ugly.' John bites his lip to stop himself from showing how much the statement hurts.

'Of course I don't. I never said that. In fact as far as I can recall I called you a tiny idiot but then pretty much everyone is an idiot, even I at times and John you are tiny in comparison to me but that is nice. Tiny is good, and you are less of an idiot than most. So forget the argument and tell me what else you remember' Sherlock orders.

John looks down at his broken hand where it rests in his lap, basking in the almost compliment Sherlock has just paid him. 'I didn't want to go home so I went to the pub after work. I'm not sure after that. I met a woman, I think we had sex… oh God, what happened is she hurt?' John asks genuine concern in his voice and it makes Sherlock flinch.

'I suspect she's fine although Mycroft hasn't found her yet.' Sherlock says in forced calm. 'He will though, she will pay for what she did.' He continues and then hesitates, unsure of whether it is a good idea to remind John of what happened if he doesn't remember.

'What?' John asks with a frown 'What did she do?'

'John she raped you. You pretty much confirmed that in A&E last night. You said you asked her to stop but she wouldn't. That is all you said but I can tell there was penetrative sex involved because you are being treated for Chlamydia and the bruising on your back is indicative of having been pushed against the edge of a pavement repeatedly and with some force. I also suspect she made you go down on her because when I found you in the bathroom yesterday you were vigorously washing your mouth with mouthwash in a manner not justified by the fact that you had just been rather violently sick.'

'Oh God.' John said growing suddenly very pale. He can't really remember but there are flashes of images and there are marks on his body that prove the veracity of Sherlock's statement. There are bruises around his non bandaged wrist and through the morphine haze he can vaguely feel the dull throbbing of his lower back and if he closes his eyes he can bring up a horrible picture of his back slamming repeatedly into the ground as a faceless woman rides him hard and it hurts but even the memory makes his cock twitch slightly and the realisation that remembering his own rape is turning him on he curls up on himself and tries to think of war and blood and the horrible spinach soup his gran used to make, anything to stop himself from remembering and more importantly stop himself from physically reacting.

'John what's wrong?' Sherlock asked pushing gently at John's shoulder to get him to uncurl.

'That is disgusting, I let a woman do that to me.'' John keeps his eye averted.

'You didn't _let_ her do anything. She drugged you. You were high as a kite for most of the evening.' Sherlock reassured him moving around the bed to be able to look John in the eye.

'No, I wanted it. I grew hard for her, she was beautiful, I got her number.' John shook his head shame tinting his cheeks red.

'Well call it date rape then. You came home drugged, crying and injured, that is not normal for consensual sex, and you did say yesterday that you wanted her to stop. Everyone grows hard if they partake in sexual intercourse, I'm sure you've told many a rape victim the same.'

'But she was a woman, and attractive, and I got off… it's… ' John trailed off.

Plenty of attractive sexual predators out there. I once had a drugdealer who looked like a slightly world weary Adonis and when I gave him a blowjob to pay off a debt I still hated every minute of it. I chose to do it and I still couldn't eat without being sick for weeks. It's no fun when you feel you don't have a choice.' Sherlock states matter of factly and this is enough to have John turn, sit up with a grimace and look solidly at Sherlock.

'Christ, I'm so sorry Sherlock.' John stared at him in utter horror.

'It's fine I've dealt with it, but you see I do understand, about doing something you don't want.'

'John nods slightly and then he looks up at him with suspicion. By the way, no you haven't. You still hardly eat and you haven't been in a relationship for as long as I have known you.'

'Fair point but I have gotten used to it. And while I still find tall dark muscled men rather unpleasant to be around I do rather enjoy having small blond doctors all over my private space.'

John chuckles slightly but he looks sad as he meets Sherlock's eye. 'Does that mean I have to get used to having panic attacks when I think of redheaded women and wanting to cut my own cock off every time it decides to twitch unintentionally.' He asks morosely.

'You can do without redheaded women and we will train your cock to only twitch intentionally.' Sherlock retorts.

'That might be hard, it likes to twitch. It might be easier to just cut it off.' John is only half joking.

'Nah, not three continents Watson, I have heard that nickname.' Sherlock smirked.

John heaved a sight. 'I think three continents Watson may be dead. I think right now I might be happy never to have sex again.'

'Oh…' Sherlock said almost excitedly. 'You can be married to the work too, it can be an open relationship.' And John honestly doesn't know if Sherlock is joking or not but he does burst out laughing and it is a release of a kind. He doesn't know how everything can be so utterly normal with Sherlock but at least his whole world hasn't crumbled with this. Whatever happens in the future he has one constant to rely on. Even if no woman will ever want him again at least he has that. Everyone assumes he is in a relationship with Sherlock, even if it is a platonic one, so maybe that will just have to be enough for now.


End file.
